All in a Day's Work
by CrisC
Summary: Featuring Wedge Antilles and the pilots of Rogue Squadron, including Tycho Celchu, Wes Janson, Corran Horn, and Hobbie Klivian. Wedge has faced down Death Stars and Star Destroyers, but sometimes the challenges come on a smaller scale.


_This story was written for the sole purpose of entertainment. No copyright infringement or harm is intended.  
The characters you know are owned by George Lucas, all others are property of the Author. _

**All in a Day's Work**

Wedge paced up and down the hangar, grumbling to himself. Concentrating on the datapad in his hand, he nearly ran into Tycho as his second appeared on the scene.

Tycho stopped short, rocking back on his heels. "Whoa, boss, easy there."

"Sorry, Tych." Wedge scowled at the datapad, punched some keys, looked at the two piles of junk that were quickly becoming the bane of his existence, and punched more keys again.

Tycho's eyebrows drew together in a frown. "What's all of this mess? These are the extra supplies?" The Rogues were packing up for a base move, and this time they had some dedicated parts and supplies that were going along. But the base commander also had some materiel to ship, and he had decided to piggyback it along with the Rogues. Wedge had argued against loading down his squadron with extra junk, but had lost. Or perhaps had given up; this commander could talk a Gibberidoo wired on caf into the ground. Most humans didn't stand a chance.

"Yes, they're the extras. And they're ours. The commander didn't give me two separate release lists to pull everything out of storage; he just lumped it all together. I'm trying to sort it out as it comes, or we'll have even more problems when we get to Awannaleeve."

Tycho shook his head. "Commander Doorktwitt strikes again. So this is our pile?" He walked around the sizable stack on the right, peering at crate markings.

"Yes, that one's ours. Here, let me check those." This last was to the utility droid that glided up, pulling the next loaded hoversled. Wedge scanned the markings on these boxes, then called to the two grumpy mechanics who had been pulled from their more interesting work of banging on ships to haul boxes. "Okay, these are base supplies. They all go on the Commander's pile."

The two mechanics shuffled over, each one picking up a box. Each one walked to a separate pile... and then turned to look at each other, confusion written across their faces. "This is the base pile," the taller one said.

"No no, I've been putting the base stuff over here. That one's the squadron pile."

"What?" Wedge interjected, walking between the two. "You've both been putting things on opposite piles?" Both mechanics nodded sheepishly.

Wedge covered his face with one hand. Tycho tried hard to stifle a chuckle.

--------------

Wedge heaved a sigh. "All right, we'll start over. Just put all of this stuff in one pile," he said, waiving at the loaded sled and the one coming right after it. "Tycho, I'm sorry to do this to you, but do you think you can sort things out? I've got to get our clearances in order and sign off so we can leave."

"Sure thing." Tycho accepted the datapad, scrolling down the list. "Ugh. Couldn't they at least mark items by who they belonged to?"

"That would be too easy, evidently. I was cross-checking against our master list. If it's not ours, I'm assuming it's theirs."

"Unless of course, there's something we could really use..." Tycho mused. Wedge smiled grimly, and headed off for the hangar offices.

He didn't get far. Hobbie trotted up to him, annoyance radiating from his somber face. "Wedge, we've got a problem."

Wedge stopped short. "What now?"

"You know the replacement power flow regulators that were installed last week? They're defective. All of them."

Wedge stared at him in silence for a second. "_All_ of them? How do you know that?"

"Some of the same batch was installed on four fighters of Tornila Squadron. Two of them were out on patrol, and both had to make emergency landings. Wildly fluctuating power levels on both port engines. They checked the regulators, and they're faulty. Bad seals. We can't fly until we've got them out."

"Sithspit, that's just what we need. How many of our fighters? Are there enough good replacements?"

"Seven. We should have just enough in our stores, if they check out."

"They're probably buried in that stack of boxes," Wedge waved vaguely toward Tycho and his piles. "Catch Tycho, and see if you can find them. Get some techs on switching things right away, maybe we can still make our schedule. If any of the pilots can swap out their own, tell them to get on it as soon as they come down with their gear."

"Got it," Hobbie answered, and spun around -- running full tilt into Tycho, who was walking up to them just at that moment. Both of them staggered, the datapad slipping from Tycho's hand and dropping hard onto the duracrete floor. With a sharp electronic CRACK, the screen went dark.

--------------

All three of them stared at the defunct datapad in silence for a long second, then looked at each other. Wedge glared; the two other officers shrank under his withering gaze.

"Ummmm..." Hobbie started, unhelpfully.

"Errr... Sorry?" Tycho ventured timidly.

Wedge closed his eyes, taking a long breath. "Tycho. Go to my office. Pull another copy of the transferal list, and our master supply list, and get back here. I'll give you five minutes. Go." Tycho nodded, leaving the hangar posthaste. Wedge turned to his other pilot. "Hobbie, do you know which ships need the regulators?"

"The techs know. Mine is one."

"All right. Go dig the spares out of that mess lying over there. Don't try to keep anything in order, just get them as fast as you can. When the rest of the squadron finally gets here, tell them to check on their ships. If they can help pull the regulators, fine. Otherwise, they're on cargo duty with Tycho."

"Yessir." Hobbie spun around, more circumspectly this time, and jogged toward the untidy stacks of crates.

Wedge muttered under his breath, and started toward the hangar office once again. As he passed the corridor doors, they slid open to reveal Corran, his personal gear slung over one shoulder. Wedge pointed at him. "You!"

Corran stopped abruptly in the doorway, surprised. "What'd I do?"

"Go find Hobbie, and give him a hand. Where's everyone else? What's holding them up?"

"Er, well, you see..."

Wedge sighed in disgust. "Never mind, I don't want to hear it. Get moving."

"Right, boss." Corran headed off toward Hobbie, taking the hint that things were not going well. Wedge continued to the hangar office.

--------------

Wedge signed off on his forms, and notified flight control that his squadron would probably be leaving late. Crossing back to where he had left Hobbie and two piles of supplies, he found Tycho, Inyri, two mechanics, and what looked like a small explosion in a warehouse, boxes and crates and packages tumbled everywhere. "What in the pits of Elzheron happened here?"

Tycho turned to him, annoyed. "This is what happens when you don't keep your files organized. I pulled the wrong list from your terminal, and we started sorting everything wrong, again. And Hobbie left a mess when he took off with his crate full of parts. Are these the lists we're supposed to be using?" He thrust his datapad toward Wedge.

Taking the device, Wedge scanned the header details of both files. "Yes, these are right. My files are organized the same as they always are, you mean you couldn't find this one?"

"The date isn't right. It's timestamped six months ago."

"What?" Wedge checked; Tycho was right. "I didn't even look at the date, I knew which one was the right list. Sorry about that, Tych." His second accepted the apology and the datapad, somewhat appeased. "When everyone else gets down here, they can help sort... and where is everyone, anyway? They ought to have been here long before this."

Inyri put down a box and straightened. "I think that half of them slept in. A bunch of chronoalarms didn't go off this morning, must have been some weird computer glitch. And some of them stayed at Downtime pretty late last night..."

"When they knew we were flying out today? I think I see KP duty in the immediate future. Where'd Corran go?"

"He's working on ships with Hobbie. We're keeping an eye out for the rest of them... speak of the pilots, here they come."

Wedge turned, seeing most of the rest of his squadron come through the hangar doors -- a bleary-eyed, slouching bunch. He drew himself up to his full height, crossed his arms, and glared. Catching sight of him, the motley group slowed, continuing at a much more reluctant pace across the hangar to him.

Arms still crossed, Wedge stared at them for several seconds. "No excuses," he finally said. "But we _will_ discuss this at Awannaleeve. You're all with Tycho. Move."

As the pilots shuffled by him, a tech approached from the side. "Sir? I'm afraid there's a problem, um, with your astromech droids."

Wedge stared at the man as if he'd sprouted a second head. "What now? What's wrong with them?"

"Ahh, there's nothing wrong with the droids, sir. We just can't get them into your ships."

"What?"

--------------

"Actually, it's the lift, sir. The crane we use to load astromechs is malfunctioning. The droids are fine, we just can't get them into the ships."

Wedge glowered at the tech. "How many squadrons are stationed on this base? You can't tell me that _all_ of your lifts are down at the same time?"

"Well, one went with the crew to get the downed fighters, one is out for scheduled maintenance, and the one left just broke."

"You've got _three hangars_ in this base! Isn't there a lift we can borrow from another hangar?"

"Err, well, they won't fit up the maintenance lift, sir. They're too big."

"There's a _freight_ lift in this base, isn't there? Won't it fit in there?"

"Well, yes, but it's the whole way down at the other end of the base, and --"

Wedge grabbed the tech by the front of his overalls. "So you're going to go to another hangar, and _fetch_ the lift, and bring it up the freight lift, and _get my droids into their ships_. That's what you were about to say, wasn't it?"

"Errr... yessir!"

Tycho suddenly appeared at Wedge's side, gently separating him from the startled tech. "Please go and get the lift, lieutenant, or send someone for it."

"I-I'll go, sir," the tech stammered, and fled. Tycho turned to Wedge, assuming his calm-under-bureaucratic-pressure-nonsense face. "Boss, how about you go for a walk."

"I'm not going for a walk, we have to get all of these mynock-spit boxes sorted and the ships --"

"I know all about the boxes, and the ships. I'll handle it for a few minutes. How about you go for a walk."

Wedge stared at Tycho for a long second, his wingmate evenly returning his gaze. Finally he heaved a sigh. "Right. I'll be out in a corridor somewhere if you need me. Call my comlink."

"Will do, boss," Tycho answered, tossing a casual salute. Wedge eyed him for a moment longer, and then trudged for the hangar doors. Some days it just wasn't worth getting out of bed.

--------------

Wedge stalked down the corridor again, returning salutes from passing base staff and trying to get his temper back under control. _I swear, Star Destroyers are easier to deal with than this,_ he thought to himself grouchily. With a long sigh, he turned back for the hangar doors. However exasperating it was, his duty was there, sorting out the atrocious mess that his routine transfer had turned into.

Rounding a corner, he caught sight of Wes, hurriedly approaching the door from the opposite direction. The lumpy bag tossed over his shoulder was a clear testament to hasty, sloppy packing. Wes glanced around and met Wedge's eyes for the briefest second; his commander caught the very guilty look on his face before Wes dodged through the door and out of view. Wedge scowled yet again, picking up his pace.

Striding through the door, Wedge immediately looked around for the late arrival. He spotted him pottering around by his ship, the bag nowhere in sight. He stalked in that direction. _He must have sprinted as soon as he got through the door, to get his gear stowed that fast. Not that it'll save his hide._

As Wedge approached Wes's ship, the shorter pilot glanced toward him, assuming his most nonchalant, carefree expression. He started whistling cheerfully, grating on Wedge's frazzled nerves. The commander planted himself beside Wes's ship, crossed his arms, and glared.

Wes swung underneath the fuselage to stand in front of Wedge, tossing a jaunty, casual salute. "Good morning, boss. Are we ready to ditch this black hole yet?"

"Not remotely. Which you would have known by now, if you weren't 20 minutes late. Where were you?"

Wes affected surprise. "Twenty minutes? Is it that late already? Everybody should be in their ships, if I'm 20 minutes late--"

"Stow it. Not another word, or you're on KP duty for a week when we get to Awannaleeve Base."

"But--"

"Two weeks."

"Wedge--"

"Three."

"That--"

"Four!"

Wes clamped his mouth shut on his ineffectual protests. Wedge continued. "Check with Hobbie about your power flow regulator, you got one of the new ones last week. If it hasn't been swapped out already, it's got to be pulled. Get it changed, and then find Tycho. And start working on your explanation for why you're late for duty, you're going to need a good one. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Wes muttered.

Hobbie's dry voice drifted down from his position on his ship's port wing, beside Wes's ship. "Shouldn't that get him another two weeks of KP?" Wes turned and glowered up at his wing. Wedge's face twisted into a tight, sour smile.

--------------

Tycho rechecked the list on his datapad carefully, scrolling down item by item as it was passed hand to hand up the ramp and onto the shuttle. With the belated advent of the remainder of the squadron, he had sent the two mechanics off to help with swapping power regulators; the late pilots had set to with alacrity, wanting to avoid making their poor showing even worse, and the mess scattered across the hangar floor had shaped up more quickly than he had hoped. With Tycho handling the cargo end of this fiasco and Hobbie keeping an eye on the ship repairs, Wedge had been free to "supervise" both sides, which really meant that he could stalk back and forth across the hangar, not get too involved in anything, and regain control over his frayed temper. Just as Tycho had hoped.

Inyri handed the last crate through the open hatch of the shuttle, and turned back toward Tycho, brushing her hands together with an air of satisfaction. "Good, now that we've got the mad Commander's junk stowed..." she started to say, but her voice trailed off as her eyes sighted over his shoulder.

"What?" the executive officer asked warily.

"Speaking of mad commanders," she said, much more circumspectly, and nodded in the direction of the hangar bay doors.

Tycho spun around, and immediately swallowed a curse. "Great. Just when I thought we might keep Wedge from exploding after all," he growled quietly, and quickly set an intercept course for the pompous little man who was, by some curse of fate, in charge of this Force-forsaken base.

"Commander Doorktwitt, how kind of you to see us off," he called, saluting sharply as he reached the Commander and his entourage -- the self-inflated officer never seemed to go anywhere without at least a couple of aides trailing along behind. Maybe he could distract him from hunting down Wedge; not likely, but maybe, maybe, if the Force was with him just a little after all ...

"Ahh, Colonel Celchu. Where is the General?" Nope. Force-forsaken was right. "I couldn't let him go without a proper farewell. I thought I had missed my chance, tied up with the daily command staff meeting and status reports, but since your squadron is unaccountably late in leaving, it seems the fates have been kind to me after all."

Tycho sighed internally as the commander rattled on. "I hadn't expected the celebrated Rogue Squadron to be so far behind its schedule, at this rate you'll scarcely be able to make the ordered arrival time at Awannaleeve Base. But I suppose allowances must sometimes be made for we of the Republic's elite, must they not?" he said expansively. Tycho wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry; fortunately the situation required him to keep his proper-respectful-officer face firmly in place, so the question was moot.

"There he is -- General Antilles!" Doorktwitt called loudly, jogging across the hangar toward the Rogue fighters. His aides jogged in his wake, and Tycho followed quickly, spotting Wedge rounding the back of Corran's ship. His commanding officer slowed, catching sight of Doorktwitt hustling in his direction, and stopped to face the onslaught, an unreadable expression settling over his features.

Tycho drifted up behind the Commander's aides as the Commander himself saluted crisply to Wedge, then thrust out a hand toward him after it was returned. "General, allow me to tell you what a pleasure it has been having you on our base, and an honor to serve with such fine pilots and officers ..." Tuning out the obnoxious man's voice, Tycho studied Wedge's face as surreptitiously as he could. Had he calmed down enough to take this pretentious little bucket of Hutt drool in stride? An unfortunate confrontation was the last thing they needed ... at least Wedge wasn't wearing his blaster ...

"... and please accept my thanks, too, for carrying my supplies along with you to Commander Farlyon at Awannaleeve, I know that they are in very good hands should pirates or marauders cross your path ..." Tycho snorted to himself. He had seen the Commander's supply list. It was unlikely that pirates and marauders would be interested in extra cases of cleaning solution, two cartons of dried panchou filets, or any of the other miscellaneous and inexpensive freight they were dragging along. He wasn't sure why Commander Farlyon would be interested in having them either, but that wasn't his problem.

"... with your permission, I can't let you go without taking a few commemorative holos with you and your fearsome pilots." What? That part snapped Tycho back to reality. _Uh oh._ Wedge tended to be impatient with this sort of nonsense at the best of times. _Please don't lose it now ... it's just a couple of holos, and then we're out of here..._

But nothing could be that simple. The Commander turned out to be just as fussy about his precious ego-fodder holos as about everything else he did. First all of the Rogue pilots had to be lined up just so, with the Commander and General Antilles prominently in the middle; then he rearranged everyone for another holo; then just himself and Wedge, with Wedge's ship in the background; then a picture of himself shaking hands with Wedge, again with the ship; then a more casual shot, with a beaming Commander slinging a friendly arm across Wedge's shoulders -- Tycho winced at that one, half afraid Wedge would reflexively grab Doorktwitt's wrist and fling him over his back, sending him tumbling across the hangar floor, but the General's icy composure held ... and through another holo ... and another ...

Finally, when Tycho himself was nearly ready to grab the holocam and use it for targeting practice, the Commander was satisfied. Thrusting out his hand for one more handshake with the "illustrious General Antilles," he said his final goodbye, turning away to leave the hangar. Tycho sighed to himself in relief. Maybe the Force _was_ with them, after all.

He cautiously approached his commander. Wedge had kept his sabacc-face in place throughout the Commander's ramblings, smiling thinly for the holos, and saying as little as possible. Watching Doorktwitt strut away across the hangar, his expression hadn't changed. After long years of serving together, Tycho was usually pretty good at reading Wedge's mood. Right now, though, even he couldn't tell what was passing behind those sharp brown eyes. Almost tentatively, he ventured, "Can we--"

"Oh, General Antilles!" Doorktwitt's grating voice again, turning and calling back to them from the middle of the hangar. Tycho flinched. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to forward a copy of the holos to you at Awannaleeve!"

Tycho didn't move, didn't turn around to see if the Commander walked away; but he listened as the clomping boots receded, heard the hangar door open, then close. Wedge's expression still didn't change. Tych flicked a glance toward Wes and Hobbie, who knew Wedge nearly as well as he did. Both of them had stayed fairly close by during the holo-shooting session -- whether to back Tycho up in case he needed to pry Wedge's fingers off Doorktwitt's throat or to help Wedge pound him into the ground, he wasn't sure. Hobbs was shaking his head in disbelief; Wes was smirking. Neither of them was being any help. Tycho sighed and turned back to Wedge.

"Um, boss?" he started to say, but Wedge's shoulders slowly slumped, his chin sinking to his chest. Wary, Tycho almost repeated himself, but stopped when Wedge's shoulders started shaking slightly. Wedge was ... laughing? Actually laughing?

Wedge turned to face him, still chuckling quietly, blank features relaxed into a grin of bemused, amused resignation. "What a mynock," he said simply. "Tycho, please tell me we're ready to get off this rock?"

Tycho returned the smile. "I think so, boss. We should probably take a long route out of the solar system, just to make sure none of the regulators are glitchy, but diagnostics all checked out -- twice for each ship. I think we're finally ready."

"Good. Rogues, let's go," Wedge ordered, raising his voice to address the nearby pilots. He clapped Tycho on the shoulder as he passed by, striding toward the ladder that would lead to his cockpit and escape. Tycho quirked a small, wry grin on the way to his own fighter. Apparently the Force hadn't abandoned them completely, after all.

--------------

"Rogues, prepare to jump to hyperspace on my mark. Three ... two ... one ... mark." Wedge obeyed his own instruction, pulling back the lever that would fling his ship through the barrier between normal space/time and into the mesmerizing, chaotic swirl of hyperspace. He had not been able to completely relax on the way out of the system, half-certain that one of the replacement regulators would decide to go on the fritz and strand one of his pilots in space, or that someone's engine would be taken out by a stray meteorite, or that Doorktwitt would follow them in his grandiose personal shuttle, determined to take some "action" holos of the Rogues in space ...

But nothing untoward had happened, and here he finally was, locked in the solitude of his cockpit for six hours until their arrival at Awannaleeve Base. Commander Farlyon had a reputation for being stolid, sensible, and reliable; much more promising than the flighty command staff of the base he had just fled. Settling more deeply into his pilot's couch, Wedge closed his eyes, hoping that better things were on the horizon.

_Beep-beep-beep._

Wedge reopened one eye. _What in space?..._

_Beep-beep-beep._

He sat up. That wasn't any normal X-Wing alarm system. He ought to know, he had heard every possible warning beep, buzz, click, hiss, or wheeze that this class of ship could produce, under the most adverse conditions imaginable. That was _not_ a normal—

_Beep-beep-beep._

"Gate, what is making that beep?" he addressed his astromech. Watching his secondary screen, it took a few moments for the droid to reply:

WHAT BEEP?

Wedge sighed in exasperation. "Gate! Didn't you just hear a—"

_Beep-beep-beep._

"There! There it was. Tell me you heard it this time?"

YES, GENERAL. THIS IS NOT ANY WARNING SYSTEM IN THE SHIP'S COMPUTER. IT IS NOT PRODUCED BY ANY OF THE COCKPIT SYSTEMS.

"Yes, I know that. All systems checked out before launch. Did the techs make any changes while the ship was on base? Maybe an update to one of the diagnostic modules?"

UNKNOWN. CHECKING. The droid was silent for a few seconds. NEGATIVE. LAST UPDATES TO DIAGNOSTIC PROGRAMMING WERE INSTALLED TWO STANDARD MONTHS AGO.

_Beep-beep-beep._

Wedge growled something uncomplimentary about his fighter under his breath. Listening hard, almost holding his breath, he waited for the phantom beep to return ...

_Beep-beep-beep._

There! It was something in the left-side panel of his cockpit controls, under his comm board. The cockpit diagnostic module _was_ located in that side of the ship. Awkwardly twisting around, he flicked open the catches that locked down the control boards and swung the panel up. He peered into the electronics hidden below, but there wasn't enough light to see much.

_Beep-beep-beep._

Working a hand down along the right-hand side of his seat, Wedge swung open a small compartment, rooted blindly inside, and came up with a miniature hand-held light. Propping it where it would do the most good, he peered again into the guts of his cockpit controls. Gingerly moving a bundle of wires aside, he saw the light glint off a small, shiny object wedged in beside the diagnostic module. Frowning, he picked up the light and focused it down into the small space. "Gate, there's something plugged into the diagnostic module. Can you tell what it is?"

CHECKING. IT APPEARS TO BE A DIAGNOSTIC DATAPAD. IT MAY HAVE BEEN USED BY THE TECH WHO VERIFIED THAT THE PS-4 POWER FLOW REGULATOR WAS NOT MALFUNCTIONING.

Wedge's lips compressed into a tight, thin line. "Is it connected to any vital ship processes?" He couldn't see how it was connected to the diagnostic unit.

CHECKING.

_Beep-beep-beep._

NEGATIVE. THERE ARE NO OPEN CONNECTIONS TO UNKNOWN HARDWARE.

"Very well. Thank you, Gate." Holding the light in his right hand, Wedge worked his left hand down into the small space. Getting a firm grip on the rogue hardware, he yanked.

_Beep-beep—_

Wedge held his breath... nothing.

He held up the small unit that had been complaining about ... whatever it was unhappy about. It did resemble a tiny datapad with a miniature screen, though the screen had not been visible stuck so far down into the cockpit panel. Perhaps it had been programmed to comm its messages out to another datapad or terminal; whatever the case, its job was finished, and its services were no longer required.

Unceremoniously dropping the thing on the floor, Wedge swung the panel closed and dogged it fast. He leaned back into his pilot's couch, closing his eyes again and wriggling a bit to find the most comfortable position. Maybe he could finally relax—

_Beep-beep-beep._

Wedge opened his eyes.

_Beep-beep-beep._

Feeling around on the floor with his right boot, he located the datapad. Scooting it a bit forward, he centered it carefully under his heel, then brought his foot sharply down.

_Beep-beep-squik--crunch_.

Picking up his foot, Wedge waited. He waited a little longer.

Silence. Blessed, glorious silence.

With a sigh, he slumped into his seat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes once more. His cockpit remained agreeably quiet. It wasn't long until he dropped off to sleep.


End file.
